Dearest Sherlock
by Driffta
Summary: John writes a letter to Sherlock every week, hoping every single time that it will be the one that gets a reply, even though he knows it never will. Post Reichenbach.  Rated M for later chapters.
1. Dearest Sherlock

**WARNINGS: THIS TAKES PLACE AFTER THE REICHENBACH FALL, SO IF YOU HAVE NOT SEE IT DO NOT READ THIS. I MEAN IT. SPOILERS.**

Also, if you do not ship Johnlock then do not read this because it may not contain any smutty goodness, but it DOES contain sentimental wuv.

_Summary: John visits Sherlock every week to tell him about all the things that have been happening. _

_Disclaimers: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, I do not own John Watson, I do not own BBC, I do not own the TV Show, I do not own the books, I do not own the movies, I do not own any of the Sherlock franchise and no matter how much I wish that were not true, it is, so I will wallow in pain and misery for the rest of eternity. _

This was inspired by this beautiful drawing and little fic I found on Tumblr by Smauggins. It's so sad, so perfect…(Message me if you want the link)

Please R&R. I crave reviews, I live for them, I love them.

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><p>Once a week Dr John Watson sits down at his desk and writes a letter to his dearest friend Sherlock Holmes. His therapist suggested it to him as a sort of release method. At first he resisted it, but now it seems like the only natural thing to do. It gives him a connection to his dear friend. So now, once a week he writes his letter and, for an inexplicable reason, leaves it at the grave, just in case Sherlock Holmes could see it from his home in heaven.<p>

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><p>Dearest Sherlock, January 27th, 2013<p>

Today I was walking through that park where we had Lestrade dig up those holes to prove your point. Remember that? Still makes me laugh. Mrs Hudson came by today, she wanted to know what I was going to do with your things. I keep telling her I'll take care of it, but she keeps pestering me. I understand why, she's worried about me. I'm…I'm fine. I miss you. You know that dressing gown of yours? I put it on the other day. Christ, I looked ridiculous. You would have laughed. The sleeves fell so far past my hands and it dragged on the floor, it was comical. You have such long limbs; I didn't realize anyone could be that leggy before I met you.

I read about a case today in the papers, it reminded me of you. Triple homicide, two women and a man strangled to death near Westminster Bridge. All three of them came from separate places, no connection what so ever and the police still can't figure out the murder weapon or motivation. You would have figured it out in a few hours, I'm sure. They can't do anything without you, you brilliant man.

I see posters and graffiti everywhere, proclaiming your innocence. It's funny, really. I was so angry about all of the things the papers were posting about you, I only meant it as an outlet, but it seems to have caught on and just five days later you can see them everywhere, all proclaiming 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes.' So many people, Sherlock. You would be proud. I miss you.

I had a row yesterday with some pompous prick. He was shouting about how you were a liar, a fake. I couldn't stand it, Sherlock. No one will ever make me believe that you were a fraud. I have a few bruises, though. A little painful, but worth it. You should see him. I miss you.

I've been sleeping in your bed lately, it still smells like you. Sometimes I sit in the bath and smell your shampoo…pathetic, isn't it? I sit there acting like a fucking baby, sobbing myself to sleep. But do you know the most pathetic thing of all, Sherlock? Sometimes I feel like you're watching me. I see something out of the corner of my eye, a shadow, a blur. I turn around, thinking it's you, praying it's you, hoping it's you, and when I don't see you there I feel like a bloody git. There were so many things I wanted to tell you, Sherlock, so many things I wanted to say, so many things I wanted you to know. Did you guess? Did you know? Could you tell? Christ, Sherlock, I miss you so fucking much. I love you. I will always love you. And the one thing that scares me the most is when I die I don't think I'll be going to the same place as you. I know you don't believe in a higher power, but I still think you're in heaven…I don't think I'll be able to join you there, Sherlock. I don't think I will.

Why did you leave me? We could have worked it out! We could have…for you I would have…

That skull of yours is still sitting where you last left it, it grins at me and sometimes I find myself talking to it! You've rubbed off on me! I must be going crazy, Sherlock. You would laugh.

Well! That is enough for today, I'll write you again soon.

Yours forever and always,

John.

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><p>Sherlock watched John walk resolutely toward The Grave. Every time he saw the brave Soldier visit his grave, it made Sherlock feel warm and happy and like an incredible ass. He didn't know if John would ever forgive him for this deception. The letters were a new addition to the weekly visit. It had started two weeks ago, the first one was a little awkward but it made Sherlock feel happy to see. The letters were one of the only physical links Sherlock had to John. He could follow him everywhere, keep an eye on him, watch him through the windows in the flat, while he was at work, but this felt a little more like interacting with John. It had been so long since he had had a conversation with anyone but most of all with John. He missed it so much. Blue-grey eyes ate up the Doctor, memorizing every movement, every expression with a loving care. <em>Dear John, dearest John, loving John, beautiful John,<em> _my John._ Wind swept across the grave yard as if it were mourning the circumstances which brought the two men there. The colours of the world seemed all the more vivid while John was around, Sherlock could see the rich green of the grass, the mellow brown bark of the trees, the way the leaves seemed to wave gently, the dazzling blue of the sky, the fluffy clouds. Sherlock could see it all with so much more feeling and beauty because of his Doctor, his Doctor had brought about a whole new world for him…

After a few more moments John walked quietly away, staring down at the ground beneath his feet. Sherlock watched him go, waiting until his figure had disappeared into the distance before making his move. Slowly, the tall man stooped to pick up the envelope that sat under a bouquet of blue irises and white lilies. He opened it with great care and read the contents of the letter. As he read a tear slid down his face, unnoticed.

_Oh John, one day I'll be able to tell you about this. One day you will understand. I have so much to thank you for, you have done so much for me and you never realized it. _ 'Forgive me for doing this to you, John. I love you.'


	2. Dearest John

Author's Notes: Just some silly ramblings I do in between the JohnLock fics I write with Calabash.

Warnings: Post Reichenbach Stress Disorder caused this so it's a wee bit depressing. Some desperate wanking. Implied slash.

Disclaimers: I don't own Sherlock. Wish I did, but if wishes were horses then beggars would ride.

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><p>I'm alive. – SH<p>

[Message Deleted]

Turn around. – SH

[Message Deleted]

See me, John, I'm right over here. – SH

[Message Deleted]

I love you. – SH

[Message Deleted]

Thank you for the flowers. – SH

[Message Deleted]

I'm alive, John. Don't be angry. I Love you. – SH

[Message Deleted]

Don't cry. – SH

[Message Deleted]

Please don't cry. – SH

[Message Deleted]

I'm Sorry. – SH

[Message Deleted]

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><p>Sherlock could not help but write those absurd texts to John, even if he had no intention of sending them. It was a sort of therapy, he supposed. He had started writing them one night when he had trouble falling asleep, because he knew John wasn't there. He always had trouble sleeping when he could not hear John's breathing in the other room, when he missed the sound of John puttering about in the kitchen, watching telly, reading his books, typing up a blog entry. Sherlock Holmes missed his blogger desperately and it gave him little comfort to know that the feeling was reciprocated. Had Sherlock known about John's feelings he would have made a move, he would have kissed John before he had to say goodbye. That was one of the things he regretted most about his previous life, not making love to John before he had to go. Not leaving his mark.<p>

Sherlock stood by the lone window in the empty front room, watching the lazy street below, watching the building where he knew John would be. 'John, what are you doing so far away?' Sherlock rocked back and forth before stumbling to his cold bedroom. Falling down on the narrow bed, he shifted about, trying to get comfortable, staring at the dull wallpapered wall in front of him. 'I don't know what to do anymore, John. You're going to laugh when I tell you this, but I feel a little lost. Sherlock Holmes, beaten by emotions. How quaint.' He snorted humourlessly. 'Oh, I know, John. I have to be more rational. Do you see what you'd done to me? I'm a mess. Well?' He demanded, not looking behind him, not looking at the empty doorway. 'Aren't you going to apologise?'

Lately Sherlock had taken to carrying on conversations with John even though he wasn't there. John had almost broken him of the habit, but now it was cropping back up. Sherlock smiled a little as he remembered how John used to berate him when he continued talking long after he had left. Sometimes Sherlock did it just to annoy him, but now he wasn't here and there was an empty void. Sherlock drummed his fingers against a long leg and twitched his nose. _Tomorrow. _Oh yes, it was that day of the week again… Tomorrow Sherlock would follow John to his grave, watch John stand there and talk to the headstone for a little while, some days he spent a longer time, some days not. Tomorrow Sherlock would feel the strong urge to shout out to John. Tomorrow Sherlock would hold himself back from hugging that sturdy man. Tomorrow Sherlock would die all over again. Tomorrow he would see John.

Outside a car rumbled by, Sherlock could hear voices outside the building. A very drunk man paying a cabbie, stumbling to his doorstep, fumbling with his keys, walking into his flat, being greeted by his lover. Sherlock closed his eyes, imagining it was John opening the door and thumping up the stairs and into this empty hole, making it feel like home. The consulting detective lay splayed out on a narrow, hard mattress, his hands clasped under his chin as though he was praying. But that was absurd. Sherlock did not know how to pray, he didn't know how to begin. He did not know how to believe in anything but himself…himself and John Hamish Watson. 'John,' he sighed, allowing his long fingered hands to move from their previous position, to move down his chest, down, down. 'John,' Sherlock could feel his groin stir as John appeared before him.

_John was standing in the doorway to the small bedroom, staring at Sherlock with a slight smile on his kind face. 'What are you doing over there, Sherlock?' He lifted and eyebrow and spread his arms out, 'I'm over here, idiot.' _

_Sherlock leapt up, stumbling toward his angel. 'John!' He collapsed to his knees and buried his face in John's jacket covered chest; he was so warm, so real. Tears spilled out from Sherlock's eyes, he had missed John so very much. 'I'm sorry, I am sorry,' he muttered. _

_John's hands settled themselves in Sherlock's brown locks, lovingly massaging his scalp. 'I know, Sherlock, I know.' _

_Sherlock inhaled John's scent, loving every little stroke John's callused fingers made on his head, lightly tugging Sherlock's curly brown hair. Sherlock clung to John; he would never let him go. Never, never, never. _

_'What are you waiting for, Sherlock?' John pulled Sherlock's chip up, making him look into John's beautiful blue eyes. He let out a wry laugh, 'sure, the bed's a little small, but I think we can make it work.' He leaned down and kissed Sherlock, his tongue running along Sherlock's lips, tracing Sherlock's teeth, discovering every centimetre of Sherlock's mouth. _

_Sherlock moaned into the kiss and with little effort, lifted the shorter man by his waist and carried him to the bed, not breaking the kiss. He laid John lovingly down on the mattress, and hovered over him, almost too scared to begin. _

_John sighed and pulled on Sherlock's arms, closing the gap between them. 'I'm not going to break; I'm not going to disappear.' He kissed Sherlock's cheek and traced the button's on the sleuth's tight shirt. 'I want you, Sherlock Holmes.' _

_Those words were all Sherlock needed to hear, hurriedly he pulled the jacket from John's back and the cream cable jumper followed. His breath was coming in quick gasps; John was grinding up against him. Sherlock could feel the erection between John's legs. His hands trembled, six more buttons to go. Five, four, three, Sherlock licked John's exposed skin with delight. He tasted sweet, like lemon biscuits and tea. He could hear the army doctor let out a groan above him and felt a hand on his chest clench around the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, the other moving down between his legs, unhooking the trousers and sliding in. _

_John pressed his callused hand against Sherlock's hot cock, palming it vigorously, his breathing heavy against Sherlock head. 'Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!' He moaned, twisting his hips around as Sherlock reached his jeans, unhooking them and pulling them off. The army doctor bucked up as he felt Sherlock's mouth on his prick, licking him through the cotton cloth. 'Oh God, Sherlock!' His hand got faster and faster, trembling as it stroked Sherlock. _

_Sherlock bucked against John's hand, feeling the hot skin mould against his, feeling the thumb to terrible, wonderful things to his raging erection, feeling the fingers roll his taught balls, pull at the base. He couldn't form a coherent thought; his mind was full of John. All he could feel was John, all he could smell was John. John was his universe, his world, his life, his love. 'Hnnnnggg, Johnnnnnnnn!' _

Sherlock's eyes opened and he took a shuddering, sobbing breath. _John._ Sitting up, he looked at the mess on his hands, sighing at the state of his trousers. He had never needed this sort of release before John; he'd never known this sort of…sentiment before he'd met John. It was a curse, and Sherlock Holmes would never trade it for anything.

'Did you see that film we were going to watch? Was it any good?' The sleuth stirred from the bed, raising himself up to his full height and stripping his clothes off, dropping them to the floor as he made his way to the shower. 'I thought it wouldn't be, remember? I told you what the outcome would be.' He called behind his shoulder. 'I'll be in the shower, John, put the kettle on, please.' Sherlock closed the loo door, walked to the shower, turned it on as hot as he could take it, and stepped in. He stood there for a few moments before he sagged against the wall, tears leaking out of his glassy eyes. This was the only time Sherlock would allow himself to cry, in the shower where he could claim it was the water, even though no one was around to accuse. Sherlock Holmes desperately missed his army doctor. 'John…'

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><p>Review please! I love reviews!<p> 


	3. The Last Letter

**Disclaimers:** As everyone ought to know, I own neither Sherlock nor the cast & crew involved in the making of this delightful telly series. Believe me, if I did I would be the happiest slash fan in the world.

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><p><em>Dearest Sherlock, May 5<em>_th__, 2014_

_Another week has passed; it's getting a little warmer outside. I moved some of your things around, I hope you don't mind. I hope you are doing alright, I hope you're not too bored. I can't imagine there's much crime in heaven… or much to deduce. _

_Unfortunately this week has been dull, nothing too much happened. Nothing happens to me now that you're gone. I got a new jumper Saturday; it reminded me of your eyes. Those eyes of yours are so brilliant, Sherlock. I was captivated by them from the moment I first saw you. Remember? You were such a prick, so sure of yourself. I was fascinated, still am. You made my life worth living again; I am in your debt for that. The world was so dull before I met you, I was so lost and then you came. The perfect storm, the Madman, Sherlock Holmes. I had the honour of receiving that smile so little given to "ordinary people". It was one of the most terrifying, exciting things I'd ever experience, Sherlock, and from then on I knew I wanted more. That smile meant danger, a rush of adrenalin, excitement, joy, life. You were so irritating, so maddening, so magnificent, and now you're gone. _

_I bought some milk earlier today, we were out. Without you here to guzzle it down the milk lasts a lot longer, I even had to throw some out because it had gone bad. Funny, really._

_I never did thank you for putting my as the beneficiary for your account, did I? It's been two years since I found out what you did for me. I guess my manners haven't resurfaced since I met you. I almost fell over when that lawyer contacted me. You would have fallen to the ground laughing. It was unexpected. Ta. I love you. I miss you._

_Ella says I'm making progress; I'm going through the grief process quite nicely. She's lying, of course. It's been two years and I'm still mourning you like it was yesterday. Still, I'm finally taking your advice and getting a new therapist. Well, not really. I'm going to stop therapy. I don't need it anymore._

_I'm thinking about buying you a plant. At first I thought about leaving that skull of yours with you, but then I figured that might not be the smartest thing. Someone might take it the wrong way. Besides, I think I would almost miss him if I left him there. So, what kind of plant would you like? I was thinking something blue. What do you think? Silly question, I know. I never did ask you what your favourite flower was, did I? I never even knew if you liked flowers. Maybe I should just buy you a pack of cigarettes instead. You might appreciate that a bit more. I know you're supposed to be quitting, but I promise I won't tell Mrs Hudson. It will be our secret. I miss you so much. Someone left a Lucky Cat at the door a few days ago. I have it sitting on the desk. I keep looking at it, trying to see it how you would, but I can't. I don't see those little details you always noticed. How did you do it? _

_Molly tried setting me up with a date a few days ago… it was a disaster. I don't know where my charms have gone. Ha ha. Apparently I need to get back into the dating arena, maybe Molly is right. Maybe I need a girlfriend, its alternative to thinking, eh? God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be talking to you about this. I've been proclaiming my undying love and devotion to you for two years, and here I am suddenly talking about needing a shag! I love you Sherlock, I always will, but, and I know you probably don't understand this, but I need human contact, physical contact. You once told me that the brain is the only important part, everything else is… what did you say, transport? Yeah, that was it. Anyway, I know you don't understand sex, but it's, well…What am I talking about? Trying to explain sex to the very asexual Sherlock Holmes. I must be going mad. You're probably shaking your head wondering what on earth I'm trying to say. I wonder, Sherlock, did you ever love me? Probably not, I know it was most likely one-sided affection. God, I Love you so much. I would have liked to kiss you just once. _

_Mike asked me if I ever thought of moving from 221B. I thought about it, looked at some flats but every single one I went to seemed lifeless, empty. I didn't think I will ever leave here. It's silly, but I used to stay here because I could see you sitting on that old armchair, lying on the sofa, sitting at the desk, messing with my computer, looking through that ridiculous microscope of yours. I opened the refrigerator and felt like something was wrong. I could think what it was until I realized – there are no heads or thumbs or blood or bugs in there. Can you believe I miss that? That was one of the things that bothered me the most about you and now I feel empty without it. And that made me realize something else, Sherlock. The lack of thumbs and heads and blood and eyeballs and other equally disgusting things in my kitchen made me realise I need to stop. It's taken me long enough to "move on", my dearest friend, but I think I am finally strong enough to do so. Therefore, this will be my last letter. I'm saying goodbye for the last time, Sherlock Holmes. I'm saying goodbye, I'm moving out of the flat, possibly out of London. Christ. It shouldn't be this hard. I said goodbye two years ago, but I guess it just didn't hit me until now. _

_Please don't give me that look, Sherlock. I'll still visit your grave, I swear. It just won't be as often. I have a life, you know. I can't bloody well let it revolve around a dead person. That would be absurd! So… just… I'll visit. I promise. I will. I'll leave you newspaper clippings so you can solve our nasty crimes here on earth while you're sitting in heaven twiddling your thumbs. Okay?_

_Jesus. This letter is all over the place. Sorry about that, mate, I guess I'm just not using my brain. Again. _

_Re-reading this letter made me realise how sodding embarrassing it is. My ears are pink; let's just never talk about this conversation again, okay? Ha ha. Alright, I still need to get my things together and buy some flowers for you so I'll be on my way. I love you._

_Yours forever and always, _

_John._

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><p>John sighed and rubbed his forehead, his cheeks were still pink from writing that last bit down. <em>Well, <em>he shrugged, _it's too late to change it now, not that it matters. He's never going to read it. _John almost let out a little sob, almost. Instead he shook his head and looked out at the room filled with boxes of Sherlock's old things. His had already been packed and set in his room at the top of the stairs. But Sherlock's… well, John did not know what to do with Sherlock's things. He couldn't get a rid of them, he wouldn't even know where to start. Mrs Hudson had put some of the science laboratory equipment in boxes during the weeks he was away from their – his flat after the funeral had ended, but John had taken them out again as soon as he'd returned to 221B. The kitchen didn't seem right without all of Sherlock's scientific paraphernalia lying about.

A part of him would never believe that Sherlock had died, it didn't seem right. For some reason it just felt as though Sherlock would come bounding in the room at any moment telling John to hurry up, that there was a crime scene to investigate! And why the hell had he moved around all of Sherlock's things?! It was the one of the many reasons why the doctor had never seriously considered moving from 221B before now. He somehow felt as though if he moved Sherlock would never be able to find him, he felt as though Sherlock would eventually find his way home, find his way into John Watson's arms. He knew it was silly, he felt sheepish for even thinking it, which was why he would never admit it to anyone. But the main reason, and really the most pathetic one in John's mind, why he never moved was because he felt if he left this beautiful, painful flat with the yellow smiley on the wall and the dark wallpaper, and the acid burns on the rug, then there would be no connection left to his Consulting Detective. He would no longer be able to see Sherlock's shadow, hear Sherlock's deep voice and he had thought that it would kill him, now he realised he didn't care if it did. It was time to move on.

John Watson liked to think he was not an overly emotional bloke, pretty average all things concerned, but Sherlock could evoke so many different feelings inside him. That damn, frustrating, annoying, childish, pompous, gorgeous, wonderful, amazing, brilliant, genius Sherlock Holmes was a complete mystery. _And I'll never be able to figure him out now…_

John caught his breath and shuddered, closing his eyes, trying to keep the tears from squeezing out. It had been two years since he had gone, such a long time, yet John could not stop thinking about it. Even when he had seen good men and women die right in front of him, blown into bits, screaming for their mothers, it had been nothing like watching his flatmate plummet to his death. John still berated himself for not realizing it sooner, for not getting there sooner. He was still kept up at night with dark thoughts, wondering if there was something he could have done to save Sherlock. Even though in his soul he knew that there would have been no way he could have saved his best friend, it still ate away at his soul, and the doctor knew without the shadow of a doubt, that was one thing that would never, ever change. Hell, John didn't even know if he really wanted it to change. Blaming himself was easy.

Rousing himself from the black thoughts, John stood up and stretched before grabbing the letter and folding it neatly. 'Envelope, envelope, envelope…' he searched around before he saw the small, slightly messy stack of off-white envelopes near the mantle, there were now only three left.

221B was so full of memories for John, both good and bad; here he had spent several action packed years with his best friend and flatmate Sherlock Holmes. It was here he had learned to live again, to see the world differently, to fall madly, deeply in love. It seemed so much longer to John, more like a lifetime than a few short years, and now he was leaving it. It was the strangest feeling he'd ever had. It almost felt like he was being ripped from his umbilical cord. Like he was surgically removing the last vestiges of Sherlock Holmes from his life. Though he knew that was utterly impossible. Sherlock had forever changed the world for John Watson. The army doctor no longer saw things the same since his friend. He saw people now, maybe not as sharply as the consulting detective had, but he saw them. He saw the man down the street cheating on his wife, he saw the child who liked to torture animals behind his parents backs, he saw the disturbing smile on the flower shop lady's face as she watched young girls on their way to school. John had always known it was a bad, bad world, but he'd never realised just how scary it was until Sherlock. And he would never EVER change that for as long as he lived. He would rather die than give up those wonderful, terrifying memories. He took a small envelope away from its friends and carefully sealed up the small piece of him that he had given to Sherlock. It did not matter that he stopped writing letters, John Hamish Watson would continue to give small pieces to that beautiful angel until there was nothing left to give, and when that day came John would close his eyes and accept death's cold embrace.

_Dearest Sherlock._

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><p>Sherlock waited in the usual spot next to a tall tree, watching for his brave soldier to appear on the scene and stalwartly march up to the grave. From experience, Sherlock knew John would stand there for a few moments then kneel down and place the flowers and letter carefully next to the grave. This day was the thing that Sherlock looked forward to most now that he was living in hiding, this time he and John spent together, even though John was not aware of it, was such an intimate moment, more intimate than he had ever been with another person. Every single time it happened, it stirred up odd feelings in the younger man's chest; it made his throat close a little, his heart palpitate, his breath come out in slow shallow sighs. Sherlock loved this feeling. It was unsettling, it was dangerous, it was exciting.<p>

_Ah!_ There he was, right on time. John was nothing if not punctual. The corners of Sherlock's lips turned up in the ghost of a smile as he saw his little doctor marching to the empty grave. He followed the man with his eyes, devouring the memory, filing it away, saving it to his internal hard drive. John was thinner; he had been losing weight, a thought that worried Sherlock to no end. John had, for a few months, as the saying went; "gone off the deep end". John would get drunk and cry in the tub, he would sit and watch telly for hours, he would curl up on the sofa holding the skull close as he drifted off into a drug induced coma. The detective had followed his every movement, ready to intervene at a moment's notice. It killed Sherlock to see John that way, and he was so glad that John had gotten past that point in his life. Sherlock did his best not to think that he was the one who had caused those black days.

Today Sherlock felt as though something was different, he could not quite put his finger on it, but somehow it seemed as though the very air surrounding him felt off. There was a nervous sort of energy around the detective as he watched John set the flowers down as usual, watched him as he carefully placed the envelope in the bouquet. Sherlock noticed John's hair was a little shorter; he must have got it cut recently. He was wearing that old cream cable jumper with a brown and black plaid shirt; his jeans fit his sturdy legs perfectly, hugging them in all the right places. Sherlock licked his lips in approval, trying to quell the feeling of unrest that settled in his chest. His eyes followed every movement John made, watched every word he said. Sherlock could not hear what John was saying, he could only guess.

For Sherlock, these letters were a look inside the brain of John Watson, the one man who he couldn't completely predict. John had always been surprising him in the littlest of ways, had always been saying something completely different from what he'd expected him to say, had always, always managed to put a smile on the detective's face. And that was not an easy feat, unless, of course, one was a corpse or a clue. During their years together at the flat, for instance, Sherlock had never been sure of John's feelings for him, but since these letters started a little over a year ago, Sherlock had found out how deeply the little soldier's feelings ran for him. It was the biggest, brightest revelation of all time.

Presently John straightened up from the crouch, and with one final touch to the head of the gravestone, he turned and marched away. By this time Sherlock knew the routine and he scurried out from behind the tree. He knew John would not look back, he hadn't turned back since that first day, and the sleuth wanted to read the letter so badly. The last few letters had honestly been quite dull, and Sherlock was desperately hoping for some news this time. The brunette picked up the flowers, noticing a packet of cigarettes that lay beside them. He smiled and shook his head, quietly pocketing the little box. Soon the letter was freed of its paper jacket and Sherlock stood reading the contents as John walked further and further away.

"_It's taken me long enough to 'move on', my dearest friend, but I think I am finally strong enough to do so… I'm saying goodbye for the last time, Sherlock Holmes. I'm saying goodbye, I'm moving out of the flat, possibly out of London." _ Sherlock's blood ran cold as he read those words, his fingers frozen on the slightly yellowed stationary John used.

John was leaving.

After all this time John was leaving.

He couldn't leave! It was impossible! He couldn't leave before Sherlock had a chance to tell him he loved him, and Sherlock just wasn't ready for that yet! All his plans and preparations had not come into fruition yet, he needed more time.

He was losing John.

Sherlock's throat closed and he watched John leave, an anguished look on his gaunt face. John couldn't leave. Sherlock NEEDED him. The sleuth reached a hand out for his old friend, his breath coming in short, silent gasps as reality began to crash down on him. Obviously John wouldn't stay. It was a miracle that he'd been around for this long. Change was the only thing constant in this damn world, so why the hell had Sherlock thought this one thing would never change? Yes, John professed his love and devotion, but it still felt like he was abandoning the detective. Leaving him without giving him a chance to come back, to make him happy, and Sherlock desperately wanted to make John happy. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

John was nearly gone now.

'John!'

Sherlock almost slapped a hand over his mouth. He had not meant to say the name aloud; it had just slipped out before he could stop himself. _ He can't hear it, he's too far away, _Sherlock told himself angrily. He seemed to be right, too, for a little bit, but then John stopped, and so did the detective.

_Fuck._

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><p>Well, I was planning on making this the last instalment of my Dearest Sherlock story, but apparently my brain has other ideas. Sorry it took me so long to write this. Life's been absolutely hectic, and I haven't had much time to write. BUT! On the bright side I have half of the next two chapters already written, so they'll probably be posted a lot sooner.<p>

Please, please, please review. Reviews help me focus and give me more energy to write, and belieeeve me, I need them. Thank you all so, so, so much for reading this. I love you all!


	4. Coming Home

John was walking away from the grave; in fact he had almost reached the pavement when he heard something. It was a whisper, nothing more. Barely there, but, like always, it was enough to make him turn around. It was probably nothing, just like every other time, but the army doctor still had to check. It's what years in the military had trained him to do; it was what living with Sherlock had inculcated in him. Always check your back. Spot something suspicious, keep digging until you understand. And always, defend, protect, fight.

And so the doctor pivoted, his heel digging into the soft turf, narrow grey eyes searching up and down the graveyard, looking for the suspicious sound. Looking for what had made the noise that almost sounded like his name.

There it was.

From the corner of his eye he could see a slight movement behind him. The corner of a perfectly tailored coat flapping about in the cool breeze, as if greeting an old friend. John halted, every muscle in his body screaming as he did so. Hissing sounds filled his brain, he felt… fuzzy, light headed, as though the air around him had suddenly become thin, as though he were approaching the stratosphere. This was it. He'd finally cracked. Gone 'round the bloody bend. _Jesus_. He always knew it would happen someday, and hell, he was shocked that he hadn't gone batty years ago. John shook his head, blinking twice, as if that would dislodge the apparition. _Still there. Completely mad_. That was the only explanation. It had to be because there, standing by his own grave, was Sherlock Holmes.

It was impossible, a mirage. It could not be real, it was not allowed.

Slowly John forced himself to breathe, to walk back to the grave where the figure stood as silent and still as a statue, long coal black coat lazily waving in the breeze. He was sure that the closer he got to this apparition the faster it would fade away, like one of those phantom dreams that always slipped out of one's grasp as they tried to hold onto it, but instead the appertain got more real with every reluctant step John Watson took. It was real, then. Sherlock Holmes was standing next to his grave, Sherlock Holmes was alive. The details came in full view as he neared the man. He looked different since the last time John had clapped eyes on him, those sharp cheekbones had become even more pronounced, his cheeks impossibly gaunt, his skin was even whiter than it had been before, if that were possible. Had he merely survived on cigarette smoke the entire time he was away? Yes. Of course. For that was Sherlock's way. Never thinking of his wellbeing. And… was that a hint of stubble on his jaw? Oh God, it was. John was fairly certain he would not have been able to imagine Sherlock with a 5 O'clock shadow; he didn't think it was POSSIBLE for Sherlock to have facial hair. Yet there it was, sprinkled about the gaunt chin as though it belonged there.

It wasn't until he was standing less than a metre away that he spoke.

'Sherlock.' John stared blankly at him, his voice an even tone, oddly quiet and calm.

'Yes.' The deep voice rumbled back, sending reverberations to the doctor's core. Deep set silvery eyes stared down at him, as though in as much shock as John was, himself.

'You're alive.'

'Yes.'

'I see. And you've been alive this whole time, then?'

'Obviously.'

John cleared his throat. 'Obviously. Right.' He nodded, the expression on his face was one he often had before. It said "of course I should have guessed it. Perfectly obvious… right, yeah. Tit." Funny. All the ways he'd imagined Sherlock would appear to him, all the ways he'd fancied Sherlock would return, and he'd left out the most realistic one. Sherlock being an annoying dick as per usual. Funny how he'd forgotten about that in the advent of his most cherished friend's death. Mostly.

John could see Sherlock watching him, his eyes furtive and worried under a furrowed brow. The doctor knew that his old friend would have gone through several different scenarios as to how John would act, and he knew without a doubt, that this stillness and this deadpan tone was not one of them. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction to know that Sherlock had not anticipated this scenario in his grand scheme of life. For John was sure Sherlock had one. He was never without a scheme, let alone a grand one. Hell, his death must have been a bloody scheme all along. A calm sort of rage began to permeate John's psyche as he stared at the presumed dead consulting detective. A rage that he hadn't felt in a long time. A very long time. 'And you never told me.' The doctor continued to gaze at him, his face now devoid of any emotion, relieved, even, of the complete shock that had first come over him from seeing his friend alive. 'You never even thought to mention to your "only friend" that you might possibly be alive.' It wasn't a question. For that sentence to be a question there would have had to have been some uncertainty in there somewhere. And there was none what so ever. John knew Sherlock better than anyone else. Sherlock hadn't given his suffering a second thought. All he had thought about was the dramatics of his act, was the cleverness of what he was about to achieve. He had never even thought to include John in his plans, instead choosing to leave him in the dust, crying and alone.

A long silence passed between the two men, stretching out into minutes before Sherlock finally answered. 'John, it's complicated. I couldn't tell you about it, it was too da –'

_THWACK!_

Stars exploded behind Sherlock's eyes as John's knuckles connected with his cheek with a force that sent him reeling backwards. This was nothing like the punch Sherlock had received before on the fatal day that had started all the cogs moving. On the day he had met The Woman. He realized now that John had been holding back at the time, John could see it in the shape of his eyes and the way his thick lips parted in surprise.

'You. Never. Told. Me.' John shouted, assuming an aggressive fighting stance. His feet placed firmly apart on the soft green grass, shoulders high, arms as straight as an arrow, hands balled into fists. 'You allowed me to carry on like a stupid git, bawling my head off because the man I lo-lived with, my flatmate, MY BEST FRIEND committed SUICIDE right in front of my eyes! You READ my LETTERS. Those were PERSONAL, Sherlock, FUCKING PERSONAL. How DARE you? I thought you were DEAD! You FUCKER. You SADISTIC PIECE OF SHIT. I SHOULD… I….YOU SICK, TWISTED MAN. I HATE YOU SO MUCH.' Tears welled up in John's eyes as he glared ferociously, trembling with tumultuous emotions that were all fighting for control. He was mortified, he was furious, he was… fucking relieved. Happy even, much to his chagrin. But… still, he was boiling over, and there was no way in _hell_ he was going to forgive the son-of-a-bitch right away. He wanted to make him squirm for all the grief he caused him.

Sherlock's expression looked as though he'd been stabbed in the chest. With a huge gulp of cool air, he lunged forward and engulfed the shorter man in a tight embrace. 'I know, I know,' he whispered fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut and stroking John's short sandy hair in a somewhat awkward shadow of gentility and comfort.

John felt like laughing, his body still trembling with extreme emotion. This was as close to human comfort the man could get, he supposed. He was trying so hard. John would have been proud of him, if he hadn't been so angry at the bloody twat. Sherlock breathed slowly, swallowing hard and taking deep, shuddering breaths, breaths that rolled against John like waves. How odd it was to be held in a dead man's arms. Or… a presumed dead man's arms. A man whose arms John had longed to be held in for so very long.

'I know, I'm wicked. I'm sorry, I am so sorry. I didn't want you to get hurt,' the younger man babbled, trying to explain how truly sorry he was, trying to convey his feelings even though he did not know the right words. And, despite the clumsy apology, John knew exactly what he was trying to say. He knew exactly how sorry Sherlock was. But he didn't care. Didn't FUCKING care. He hated Sherlock. Hated him more than he hated Moriarty and the whole damn media for painting his best friend, the love of his life, as a fake.

'I hate you so much, Sherlock.' John shuddered, leaning against the solid figure of Sherlock Holmes, breathing in his scent, loving the sturdiness of the man's body. Sherlock was back, Sherlock was alive, Sherlock was here, Sherlock was holding him. 'I was so empty.' He whispered, giving up the battle with the tears that had been trying to force their salty way from his eyes. 'I thought you were DEAD, Sherlock. Fucking dead.'

Sherlock just stood there holding his brave soldier in two wiry arms. He did not let go of John, he simply stayed swaying gently in the wind, resting his chin on John's soft hair, his head turned up to look at the bright blue sky, a few unbidden tears spilled from his eyes.

The two men stayed there together suspended in time, holding each other, neither wanting to let the other go as they drank in the warmth and security of their bodies.

The anger slowly began to ebb away from John Watson's soul as they clung to one another, as he felt a few drops of warm salt water on his neck. He wanted to hang on to it, he wanted to keep it inside him, filling him with a warm hatred for the man who had caused him so much suffering over the past few years. And then John pushed away, loathe to forgive him just yet. Dragging a sleeve over his eyes, he glared at the contrite man in front of him. "This doesn't make us okay, Sherlock. This doesn't negate anything. I died that day. I died right along with you. And just as I was moving on… just as I was getting better you show up. Do you have any idea how angry I am?'

'Yes. I do.'

John laughed a little, sniffing a bit and clearing his throat, straightening his jacket and returning to his soldier's stance. 'I don't know if you really do, Sherlock… but I'll take it.' He looked at his friend and brushed his fingers over the man's coat sleeve. 'You look like shit, Sherlock. Like fucking shit.' John shook his head, sighing and rubbing his forehead. Who the hell was he kidding? Sherlock looked beautiful as always. Even when he looked like a walking corpse, he still managed to pull it off with style. Damn the man and his timeless fucking elegance. 'You're a sodding dick, you know.'

A tentative smile flitted across Sherlock's lips, as though he wasn't quite sure if he ought to take John's relaxed visage seriously, because, John knew, he was not wholly convinced that the doctor wouldn't change his mind and punch him once more. 'Yes, I know.' He answered quietly, silver eyes darting to John's hands, then back to his face.

'Look, it's fine, Sherlock. Just… don't look at me like that, okay? I'm not going to hit you again.' John ran a hand through his hair once more. He was tired. It had been two years since Sherlock's death, and he was tired. And quite suddenly he didn't want to be angry anymore, he didn't want to be upset. He just wanted to be home, and home was with Sherlock. It had always been with Sherlock. They'd wasted enough time. 'Can we go home now?' He asked quietly, looking up at the silent man, a half smile playing across his mouth.

'I would like that,' came the soft reply. 'I would like very much to go home.'

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John slowly made their way back to Baker Street, neither of them speaking a word to the other. No words seemed necessary. They hadn't even bothered to hail a cab, they just walked. Each soaking up the other's presence, content in the silence that passed between them. Every so often Sherlock would clandestinely glance down at his friend, wondering if John had really, truly forgiven him, and every time he would turn his head to look ahead of him once more, still unsure. Yet right then he didn't want to worry it. He was happy, mostly. Finally he was able to go home. He didn't have to live in the flat across the street. He didn't have to watch John while the doctor smiled a hollow smile and pretended to be "just fine". He didn't have to feel guilty anymore. Not right now. And that was a blessing. For Sherlock Holmes had never felt this guilty, or even very guilty at all, in his entire life. And he hated it.<p>

By the time they reached 221B it was evening and the air had cooled considerably. All around were the sounds of night, the faint noise of traffic in the distance, the low murmurs of people all cosy behind their doors, the rustling of plants dancing lethargically in the slight wind that grew ever chillier as the night crept along. Somewhere in the distance a cat mewled, a low, mournful sound. They both stopped in front of the familiar old door with the brass numbers on its front, looking at it as though it had changed completely. As though it was a portal to a different dimension.

John licked his lips and dug in his pockets for the keys to their building, a frown on his face.

'They're in your left pocket.' Sherlock finally broke the silence as he pointed to the bump in the dark wash denim. He glanced up at John. The older man was flustered… upset? Sherlock looked back at the door. John had said things were not okay. This would take work. The detective grimaced to himself. He did not quite understand why it could not simply go back to the way it had been before. He'd apologised, hadn't he?

'Right. Ta.' John nodded stiffly and unlocked the door, walking through the door and up the narrow staircase without looking behind to see if Sherlock was following.

As the door to 221B opened all the familiar scents surrounded the detective and he breathed deeply. God, how he had missed this. Sherlock looked around, seeing every change that had passed through the years. It was clean, almost sterile, as though John did not spend much time in the flat of late. There were holes where John's things used to be. Boxes were stacked up along walls, bits of Sherlock's old things were peeking out from the tops, even his steer skull was packed away. Others that had already been packed were lined up close to the door, waiting to be shipped out. The smiley face was gone. That was right. John was moving out.

'I packed everything up. Didn't know what to do with it.' John said apologetically as he noticed Sherlock glancing around.

'It was to be expected. I was dead.' Sherlock murmured softly, still taking in the massive change that had occurred in his absence.

John bristled a little at those words, there was still a little sore spot – no a massive angry, red area that would not heal anytime soon. Sherlock knew that, he didn't expect John to forgive him right away, well, not really… it was something that would take time. He watched John carefully from the corner of his eye; Sherlock did not want to endure another punch anytime soon, no matter how much John thought he deserved it. His cheek was still pink, yet beneath it other colours were starting to show through as well. The beginnings of rich purples, deep blues, and even a pale, sickly yellow-green hue were beginning to take up residence on Sherlock's cheek. There would be a nasty bruise before the morning sun arose.

'Right,' John said stiffly, 'I'll just make some tea.' He walked over to the kitchen and started shifting things around, putting the kettle on, getting to of the unpacked mugs out, and stepping up on his tip toes to grab some biscuits Mrs Hudson had left for him a little while ago as a parting gift. John sniffed at them dubiously. A little stale, but they'd have to do. Suddenly a pair of long, wool clad arms wrapped around his waist. Thin, underfed arms. 'Sherlock… what exactly are you doing?' John asked, his voice slightly strangled.

'Hugging you.' Sherlock muttered, hugging him even tighter, his forehead coming to rest on John's sturdy shoulder, 'Obviously.' He swallowed thickly, unsure how to continue. 'John… I… I am sorry.'

'Look, Sherlock,' John sighed, 'I told you already. It's fine.' He turned around and cupped a thin cheek in his weathered hand. 'You forgot to eat while you were away, didn't you?' The shorter man smiled sadly, his thumb tracing a circle on Sherlock's sharp cheekbone. 'I wasn't there to remind you. How did you last without me, you idiotic man?' He chuckled a little and shook his head at Sherlock's suddenly hopeful expression. 'This doesn't mean I've forgiven you yet, you tit. But…' the man took a deep breath and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. 'It will mend, Sherlock. I just need some time.'

Those words cut right through Sherlock's chest, giving him new found hope and strength. He nodded gruffly, letting his gaze drop, not moving an inch. John's hand felt so good against his cheek. The rough, callused hand stroking his skin, John's scent invaded his lungs and it smelled like home. 'We have time.' He whispered softly, one hand coming up to rest on John's, memorizing each line and vein.

'Not planning on killing yourself again anytime soon, then?' John's laugh, though intended to be light hearted, rang harsh and bitter in Sherlock's ears.

The detective gazed sorrowfully at him, the heart that had soared to the highest height imaginable had now crashed to the ground, leaving a dull aching feeling in the younger man's chest where moments before had been resounding hope. As his hands fell to his side, he opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off with an apologetic smile and clap on his thin shoulder.

'I shouldn't have said that. It was a low blow.' He murmured a bit ruefully, running a hand through his hair and shrugging. 'Come on. Let's just have some tea and watch telly. Okay? Just… just a normal night.'

Sherlock nodded somewhat despondently, gnawing on his lower lip. He had to express himself somehow. Somehow he had to say the words that had been written to him in many a letter. How he was to go about that, however, he did not know. John seemed eager to act as though nothing had happened, despite the fact that they both knew this would be bleeding wound for some time. John's previous remark had been enough to solidify that in Sherlock's mind. How would he be able to tell him in a convincing manner? How would he be able to say in no uncertain terms what he felt deep in his black heart?

They both settled down on the sofa, each in their old spots, the same routine falling back into place despite the few years of absence. John turned the telly on, and as the screen flickered to light, John seemed to relax a bit. Presently he turned to his old friend with a smile and reached a hand over, patting Sherlock's leg.

'We'll start unpacking everything tomorrow, if you like." He said in a somewhat kind voice, gazing into his friend's eyes.

Sherlock nodded, resting his hand atop John's for a half a second. 'Yes, yes I would like that. Is my room in order still, or…?' He trailed off, knowing full well that his bed was still intact, even if his sock index might not be.

John turned his attention back to the telly, nodding in answer. 'I got a few of your things moved out, but the bed is still there, same with most of the clothes.'

'Good.'

The conversation petered out once more, and soon the television was the only sound to be heard in the building. Not even Mrs Hudson was making noise, for she had long since gone to sleep.

* * *

><p>Yes! I have written more! Sorry for the dreadfully long update! I have been so busy with finals and what not that it took me forever to get around to writing. However, I will most likely be updating more often now that I won't have school for a little while. I assure you the thrilling (ha ha ha) climax will be upon you shortly! Just one or two more chapters until this incredibly underwhelming fiction is put to its final resting spot. Thank you all so much for reading this and for your concern as to my dear friend Calabash. We'll both be updating our joint stories once more in just a short while, I assure you! Thank you again,<p>

Drifta


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